


The Most Popular Sport in 'Nam

by missmollyetc



Series: Murphy's Crew [4]
Category: Tour of Duty (1987)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-12
Updated: 2010-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Murphy's Laws of Combat # 10</b></p><p><i>"The easy way is always mined."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Popular Sport in 'Nam

It's dark in the bar. An RPG hit the primary generator mid-morning, so all nonessential buildings were taken offline to preserve the secondary generator for the rest of the base. To everyone but the grunts, the little after hours place where you can go off-duty on base is nonessential. Never let it be said, however, that the soldiers of the United States Army aren't resourceful in an emergency. No electricity? Shit, flashlight works just as well. Dozens of 'em, grouped upright on tables, their owners downing shot after beer in the half-light.

Doc sits tucked into his own corner of the bar, out of the way--out of sight, really--of most of the other customers, who really wouldn't notice him anyway; busy as they are with the second most popular contact sport in Vietnam behind boom-boom. He's tired, half-drunk, and still hasn't changed t-shirts. Under his jacket, his shirt is spattered with dried blood. His hands are rough with dried skin and raw from scrubbing. There were too many injured to count after the generator blew, and so they all just faded into one--one desperately hurt, heavily bleeding soldier with a blond crew cut and big blue eyes who just kept calling "Doc, Doc."

It's easier to sit in the dark next to the store room, than walk over to where the team is sitting. Or could be sitting, if Doc could see that far away. It's easier to stay quiet, to not put on the professional facade, and echo 'it don't mean nothin' around and 'round the table until he can pretend he believes it. Easier by far to simply sit at his table and drink and while away the long night by himself.

He takes the final swallow of his warm beer, and sets the can carefully on the table. He tips the chair back on its hind legs, and there are fingers in his hair, stroking the back of his head and toying with the strands at his nape. He can feel the scratch of rough nails against his scalp. He sucks in a gasp and arches his neck. The chair starts to tip back.

A hard hand grabs his shoulder, an arm slides around to encircle his chest, and hot breath simmers across his neck. The hand in his hair grips the side of his head, the palm covering his left ear. The fingers scratch lightly, drawing light circles on his scalp.

"I love your hair," he hears whispered.

"I..."

"Shh..."

He's drunk, or he's not drunk enough. That's a man's voice, and no one's snuck a whore inside since the last MP raid. The whisper has an edge of familiarity; he _knows_ that voice, he just...he's just...there are _fingers_ in his _hair_.

The hand tugs his head to the side, and a wet mouth latches on to the crux of his neck, sucking hard. Doc shudders and tilts his head further to the side. He groans, and the hand clamps over his mouth.

A sharp bite is his punishment, and then a tongue licks its way behind his ear. "You have to shut up," he hears. "You wouldn't want anyone to notice us, would you?"

Doc shakes his head, and then just shakes as the mouth returns to its place on his neck and resumes sucking. All Doc's attention is becoming focused on that one point on his neck. The feel of chapped lips moving over his skin, the rough tongue and sharp teeth, the pressure. It makes his skin hot, over-sensitive and prickly. His cock presses against his fly.

He shifts closer to the mouth and the hands on his body tighten. He can feel one hand scrabbling under his t-shirt, and scratching up his ribs to pinch a nipple. He bites the hand over his mouth and whimpers.

The mouth leaves his neck. "Up. Up," he hears and belatedly forces his legs to support himself as he's pulled roughly out of his chair, and frog-marched backwards into the small store room.

He's held full-length against a lean body. He smells beer and peanuts. Light from the storage building next door comes in from a small window. He looks around and sees shelves stacked with black market junk. And he sees his sergeant, his hand on a box of lighters, staring at him in shock.

"Wha--what..." Doc stammers.

"I told you to be quiet, Doc," he hears and, for the first time, he lets himself recognize that voice.

"L--" The title disappears in a moan as his LT attaches his mouth to the spot behind his ear and bites down hard. Doc feels the LT's cock against his ass and pushes back.

LT's arms tighten, pulling his hair to the point of pain, and then both hands are dragging his shirt up to his armpits. The LT explores his chest with hard fingers, pressing bruises into his skin and rakes his fingernails in tightening circles around his nipples.

Doc throws his head back and moans. His hands white-knuckle his pants. "Please, please, please..." he chants, rising and lowering in pitch with each scrape of the LT's nails and flick of his tongue.

One vicious swipe of a fingernail causes Doc's eyes to pop open. His chest feels bruised, raw. The LT twists his nipples again.

Doc watches Sarge's hands curl into fists. Even in the low light, he can see Sarge's mouth hanging open, his tongue lick his lips, his eyes staring...staring behind Doc. Staring at the LT.

"Touch yourself," LT says.

Doc shakes his head. This is...what is this? He's not supposed to be here, Sarge isn't supposed to be here...the LT sure as hell shouldn't be here and...LT is kissing his neck, dozens of tiny kisses in a row all up and down his jugular.

"You're so beautiful," he hears. "So sexy. I love your voice, your hands...I love your hands...do it. Touch yourself."

LT soothes his chest, caressing his abused nipples and lightly twisting them again, rolling them between his fingers.

"You're so hard, Doc. I can see it."

Doc swallows, shifts against the LT, and feels his erection press harder against his pants. He's drunk, Sarge is watching, but the LT feels so _good_\--

LT's hands dip under his waistband. "I want to see you."

LT's fingers slide through Doc's pubic hair and bump against his cock. LT hisses in Doc's ear. "I want to watch you come all over your hands. I want to hear you scream my name."

Shaking, Doc can't take his eyes off Sarge, who can't seem to take his eyes off LT. Doc's hands steal up his thighs, the material catching on his fingers. He undoes the button on his pants, and inches the zipper down. The rasp of the metal is loud over Doc's gasping breath.

"That's it, that's good," LT whispers in his ear. Doc is rewarded with a slow kiss to the side of his head.

It's easy, so easy to let go. To push his pants and underwear down to his knees, feeling the surge of LT's cock against his ass when Doc shimmies the material away. He grasps his cock, rubs the long vein with his thumb. He strokes slowly, slicking his dick with precome. He rests his head against LT's shoulder, and closes his eyes so he can't see Sarge.

"So good, Doc, just like that...harder, do it harder."

Orders is orders, and Doc obeys, tightening the ring of his fingers until it almost hurts and sliding through the precome at the head. He wishes he were a better person, wishes he was more drunk so Sarge would just be a blur, rather than an image, sharp as a photographer's snap. Can't the LT _see_\--

"Faster," LT says.

He wraps one arm around Doc's waist and rolls a nipple with his other hand.

"You look so good like this," LT says.

Suddenly Doc can see himself: pants around his knees, shirt rucked up to his armpits, held up by the LT--jerking off for the LT-- in front of Sarge. It's--it's--Doc's breath catches in his throat. He fingers the circumcision scar on his cock and moans. His other hand dips down and rolls his balls.

"More," he gasps.

"More?" LT chuckles. "What, Doc? More what?"

He strokes faster. His knees shake, his fingers tighten. LT said harder, and now Doc wants harder. LT said faster, and Doc wants faster. He wants more. He wants heat, he wants the spike of pleasure-pain when LT crushes his nipples. He wants it all, and he wants LT to keep talking and keep touching and, God, he wants that cock. LT's cock pushing up the crack of Doc's ass.

Doc shoves back against LT's crotch.

"Oh," LT breathes the word across Doc's skin. "You want me?"

Doc moans.

"Is that so, Doc?"

Doc nods frantically. He hears a hiss, and doesn't think it comes from him. Sarge? Is Sarge...oh God, what is this?

LT lets go and Doc falls against the wall, opening his eyes wide. He wants that heat back and back it comes, plastered against his front, cock to cock, the sting of LT's open zipper against his hip.

"Like this, Doc?" LT whispers and Doc can't look away from his eyes, boring into him, pinioning him where he stands, hands trapped between their bodies. "You want it like this?"

LT moves against him and Doc can't take it anymore. He grabs LT's hips, buries his face in LT's shoulder, and rubs. His cock slides against LT's, slippery and perfect. LT shoves back, shaking the thin wall of the storeroom and sets the pace, rough and hard, quick.

Doc knows he's moaning, groaning, babbling nonsense, "Oh, oh, please, yes, God, please."

The smell of sweat and beer, blood and musk lies thick in his nose. The heat builds and curls up his spine, spreading to his groin, pooling in his cock and tightening...tightening...LT bites his shoulder. One hand clamps over his mouth, and Doc screams, shooting all over LT's stomach, hips jerking in LT's grip.

Doc leans against the wall, and lets his eyes close. He feels LT thrust his hips once, twice, three times and then come, a ragged breath the only sound he makes. For a moment, LT leans against Doc, absently mouthing his shoulder. Then, LT pushes off Doc and stands, wiping the come off his stomach onto the floor with the flat of his hand, and doing up his pants.

LT dries his hand off on a handkerchief and hands it to Doc who takes it silently. Doc looks behind LT. Sarge is still there, white face and prominent erection. Doc swipes at his chest, wincing at the mess.

"Doc."

Doc looks up.

LT straightens his shirt, buttoning up his flack jacket to cover the mess. He nods and puts his hands on Doc's shoulders. His thumb presses on the bite mark on Doc's neck. He runs one hand through Doc's hair and turns.

Doc stops breathing.

LT and Sarge stare at each other. Something electric--heavy and painful, like before a storm--is in the air. LT nods and leaves the storeroom, closing the door behind him.

Sarge watches him leave, staring at the closed door. Doc shivers. He's cold now, and alone. With Sarge.

Sarge turns his head in Doc's direction. He steps forward and Doc tries to step through the wall. He swallows and fumbles with his pants. He yanks them over his hips and catches his finger in the zipper.

Sarge steps close to him and breathes deeply. He exhales slowly and looks Doc straight in the eye. Doc knows he should flinch, but there's a strange nothing blooming in his head, and it's making the whole world dim.

"Better get to your bunk, son," Sarge says. "You look like you could use the rest."

Doc nods.

"You need some time?"

Doc nods again, obscurely grateful that Sarge doesn't seem to need a verbal response.

"Wait five minutes," Sarge says. "Then nobody'll notice."

He backs away from Doc slowly, sizing him up the entire time, and leaves the room.

Doc slides down the wall to the floor, and waits his five minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> The characters of Tour of Duty do not belong to me. No profit is being made from this story.


End file.
